the implications of dating a suited killer
by Obfuscatress
Summary: He supposes sooner or later, when shagging a killer trained in the name of Queen and country, one has to consider the implications of dating a Kingsman. Sequel to "a gentleman's guide to modern day courtship".


_**A/N:** One more part to come to this series._

* * *

I.

Mycroft watches the elections, tucked away in his office with a glass of scotch, a cup of black tea and something that's supposed to be dinner. He barely tastes it, following the percentages climb in their little, animated columns while party leaders spray the public with their typical jargon. There's the ones pleased to be victors and the men slowly being crushed by defeat even as they keep smiling at the camera with cold, dead, lizard eyes.

It all works out one way or another for him anyway. Nothing's perfect, and even the optimum is hardly ideal for his position, but Mycroft has a bigger picture to think of. He's compromised before; it's all some strange game of chess. He's had a lifetime to practise with Sherlock, after all, he thinks as he watches the new prime minister pop a champagne bottle with his greasy face illuminated in a sea of flashes and spotlights.

His phone buzzes on his desk and Mycroft lets out a long suffering sigh before he decides to retrieve it. One never knows, when Sherlock's about to get himself killed. The message is very much not from his brother, nor does it tip his world off balance in any of the expected ways.

 _Saw the news. Is this a good or bad thing? -Harry_

Mycroft sits down honest to God momentarily baffled, because yes, they'd been on a date, and yes he'd kissed Harry Hart in a sleep fuzzy state four days ago, but somehow he was not expecting this. ' _Classified information, I'm afraid. -MH'_ he writes back for lack of anything better, only for his phone to ping seconds later.

He doesn't remember proper texting etiquette as he's overheard it from a group of secretaries once, but he's certain this is not it.

 _Are you wearing a tie? -Harry_

 _Yes? -MH_

 _Can't be too terrible then. Unless you're drunk off your arse already. -Harry_

 _You're utterly impossible. -MH_

There's a pause there, when Mycroft's overcome by a sting of regret, because gentlemen do not call other gentlemen madmen. Gentlemen do also not kiss other gentlemen with a death grip on their ties, but that hasn't stopped Harry Hart from _liking_ him. It's awfully middle school and the thought of it makes Mycroft frown at the television.

 _Will you still go out with me Wednesday? -Harry_

 _Bring a bigger umbrella this time. -MH_

 _I'm afraid they don't have bulletproof versions of those. -Harry_

And if Mycroft smiles stupidly to himself, no one ever has to know, especially not Harry Hart.

II.

At the end of their Wednesday date, Harry Hart dutifully kisses him in the rain under a positively gigantic umbrella like they're in some sort of romance movie. A group of drunk women across the street whistle at them, and Mycroft blushes furiously, though his voice is even, when he says, "And I thought you were the more reserved type."

"When it comes to making advances, yes. This is hardly new, unless you've changed your mind for some idiotic reason."

"Questioning my judgement. Charming."

"So I've heard."

"Does that mean you're into instant crazy eyes, because in that case I might just have to stoically march off over the hills."

Harry looks mock offended as he hails a cab. "No running?"

"I don't do physical exercise. Not even for you," Mycroft says dryly and luckily Harry Hart realises he's come dangerously close to hitting a nerve, and there Mycroft gets to be surprised yet again, because Harry lets it slide without question. If this were Sherlock, or anyone of his work colleagues, Mycroft thinks bitterly, they would've struck him mercilessly in his weak spot, but this time he's standing under Harry Hart's umbrella at the receiving end of half a smile.

They clamber into a Kingsman issue cab and become part of London's evening hustle with the umbrella dripping onto the floor between them. There's nothing in the air, except for their own brand of silence, Harry's hand almost clasping his on the empty seat between them and to Mycroft that's a cherished sort of _nice_.

"You know," Harry says, when Mycroft's house is already looming at the end of the street, "I voted for Stinton. Haynes just doesn't have the appropriate sophistication to lead us into a new age. I mean, have you seen the man's bloody umbrellas?"

Mycroft decidedly does not _giggle_ , but a snort escapes him nonetheless and he mutters 'atrocious', even as he's trying not to burst out laughing. "Is this how you view politics," he asks, once he's got a grip on himself and the car's pulled to a stop.

"I believe it's all I need to know. I've saved enough of those twits in a lifetime to tell you a thing or two about their general IQs," Harry mutters and then adds, "Naturally _you_ are an exception in the best way possible. And I trust you to not let this ship founder."

"Some days I feel like I want to set it on fire and watch it burn from the French shores."

"Is this you confessing treason? Because I know the sensation all too well."

The windshield wipers squeak unpleasantly and Mycroft turns his hand palm up. Harry Hart squeezes. "Goodnight, Mycroft Holmes."

"Goodnight, Harry Hart," he retorts and gives the git a peck on the cheek, because they've got all the time in the world and Mycroft's lips are still kiss swollen from their earlier make out session in the rain.

He doesn't watch the car shrink into the horizon from his doorstep and Harry Hart does not insist on walking him up to the door. They're both grown men and neither one of them needs to fake excessive chivalry. Mycroft steps out of his shoes in the foyer and turns on the kitchen light to raid the fridge for an evening snack.

III.

There's the Lamorak trial, after the old agent has fallen in battle. Mycroft drives past the church where they hold her funeral to see a small crowd gathered around an open grave, Harry Hart standing there as stoic as ever. Arthur calls Harry in a few days later to lead the Lamorak trial and Mycroft watches that too, playing in the background as he sifts through some budget reports.

It's the same procedure as always. He sees the panicked look on the candidates faces as their lodgings fill with water, and Mycroft recalls Eggsy Unwin smashing his fist relentlessly into the two way mirror some time ago. He wonders what they did back in Harry Hart's day; how he found himself at Kingsman, slitting throats and saving the world on a daily basis.

Now they're slowly fading, Harry's generation of Kingsmen, replaced by Eggsys and Roxys and a carefully selected group of ruthless youth ready to take on the evil of the world. On the feed, Harry eyes them all evenly, no doubt assessing them based on some unique criteria developed over the years and Mycroft is curious, if he's been subject to such a look at their first meeting. If that is how Harry Hart picked him to be worthy and ended up selling him not only cufflinks, but a date and something bordering a relationship.

And that in itself is almost too strange for Mycroft to try to wrap his head around, because he may or may not be dating one of the deadliest men in the country out of his own, free and uncharacteristically sentimental will. Perhaps that is a monumentally bad idea. Perhaps it's not, he wouldn't know quite yet.

He once told Sherlock - lonely Sherlock, who destroys and saves lives in turn like a force of nature - that all hearts are broken. Only, he hasn't given his heart away and Harry Hart hasn't given him one to keep, so he deems it as safe as such an entanglement may be.

His intercom buzzes and Anthea announces his eleven o'clock meeting is about to start, so Mycroft shuts off the Lamorak feed and returns to the job he does actually get paid to do.

IV.

Baker Street is its own typical mess of dust, damask patterns, experiments, papers and books strewn around everywhere, following the laws of entropy just about as well as anything possibly could. Sherlock's stuck in some sort of meditative sulk on the couch, blue satin dressing gown spread out everywhere as he plucks at the strings of his violin. Mycroft takes the flat and his brother in in a matter of seconds, crosses the threshold and grumbles, "I believe the purpose of having a phone, is to allow for communication."

The smells of chinese take out and rotting body parts disguised with formaldehyde float around the room and Mycroft dearly wishes John Watson would still live there, because he exercised at least a semblance at keeping the residence from falling apart. Sherlock on the other hand has decided to peel off a strip of wallpaper and stick three knives into the wall with the smiley face. In the same way Sherlock ignores the mess, he ignores Mycroft, and if he hadn't had a lifetime of practise his brother might even be irritated by it.

"Use your _words_ ," Mycroft says very slowly like he used to when they were little and Sherlock would scowl and scream at things like a rabid animal, and it's their own version of a shoving fight. Sherlock, predictable as ever, shoots him a glare like his personal pride has been violated and Mycroft knows it's a shitstorm coming.

"I believe the point of not answering your texts, is that I rather wish to not be affiliated with you in any way," Sherlock sneers and stalks past him into the kitchen.

Mycroft doesn't take it personally and sits down in the red armchair reserved for John Watson's infrequent presence and the occasional client Sherlock deems interesting enough to receive his attention. "Honestly, Sherlock. Are you ever going to grow out of your terrible manners?"

"There's nothing to grow out of. Unless of course, you would like to reclaim your soul from the devil, because you sold it for a piece of cake, when you were four years old."

Sherlock, Mycroft thinks, might simply be permanently five years old, though now equipped with a razor sharp tongue and a knack for hitting the right spot with it too. A self-proclaimed dragonslayer, lashing out left and right with uncontrolled rage. Mycroft almost wishes they were little again, so he could write down a cipher and let his brother wear himself out with it.

"I take that to mean the case isn't progressing and you've already slapped on as many nicotine patches as you can. Must be a delight to the poor policemen at New Scotland Yard."

"I'd use actual cigarettes, if anyone would sell them to me," Sherlock says with a pointed glare, but Mycroft won't revoke that particular punishment yet. His brother sets pre-poured tea and stale biscuits down and takes his own seat on the black leather throne of temper tantrums. "Why are you here?"

"To check you aren't suffocating on your own vomit, perhaps."

"That was one time."

"Once too many, Sherlock."

They have a good old stare down, but there's nothing to win apart from petty pride, so Mycroft lets it slide and Sherlock asks, "Tea?"

"No, thank you," Mycroft retorts, glancing at the steaming cup that may very well be laced with arsenic, cocaine or both. One never knows with Sherlock. The biscuits might even be something as crude as laxatives, because Sherlock has the ability to enjoy the simple things in life. Mycroft's learned that the hard way.

"On a diet?"

"Simply put: I'd rather not die prematurely of consuming anything that has been in your kitchen."

"Many might consider it a favour to society. I rather think you're a bit overdue."

"Of course," Mycroft concedes, because it drives Sherlock mad in an entirely different way. "Anyway, vitriol aside, I've come to tell you Mummy's holding a birthday party in three weeks from now, though I have no doubt you've gotten the invite. You'll be going, is the point here."

"You seem to have forgotten I am an adult, Mycroft. You do not get to tell me what I do anymore."

"It's not me, who wants you there. I am here on Mummy's accord, _brother dear_."

And there the infinite friction between them condenses into its purest form: Mummy. Mycroft knows he's got Sherlock now. Sherlock takes it as an invite to snap 'get out' at him.

For once Mycroft obliges gladly, trotting down the stairs with a satisfied smirk. He's done far worse with Sherlock, has the emotional and physical scars to prove it too. In his own flat, Sherlock launches into action, and when Mycroft glances up to the window from the curb, his brother is torturing the violin behind the curtains.

V.

For reasons Mycroft neither cares to find out nor minds, they date like old fashioned gentlemen. Suited dinners in fine dining establishments with nothing else than tangled legs beneath the privacy of floor length tablecloths to indicate anything romantic at all. Mycroft finds it to be more than enough, especially as he catches sight of a nearby minister with a girlfriend half his age, who is practically throwing herself at him over the table.

"There's potential in some of the remaining Lamorak candidates," Harry Hart tells him, "Not that my judgement guarantees anything at this point. Especially with the young ones you never know what they really are capable of."

Mycroft assumes it is what Harry Hart's done for a living all this time: spied unexpected potential like a well-trained blood hound. All the wild cards, the silent troopers and plain oddballs mentally dissected and laid open on a table to take in. Perhaps that's how Mycroft's ended up here too, a glimmer of something they each spotted in each other and leapt for.

"I will gladly take on whomever makes it through the second to last stage, but doesn't quite have the heart to shoot their dog." Mycroft is reminded of Sherlock and Redbeard every time the Kingsman trials reach the last round, the undeniable attachment between the two, and no, he wouldn't think ill of someone who loves their pet.

"You would tolerate a sentimental twenty year old in your ranks?"

"I'd hardly be handing them the codes to nuclear missiles. I simply despise wasting money and time on finding trustworthy employees, when someone else does it for me just as well."

"To think you'd trust me with something like that," Harry Hart says.

"Well, you do trust me with the entire country. I have to repay the favour somehow."

Again there's that oddly bright smile, like the patch under a street lantern on a rainy night, and Mycroft is grinning back. "Dessert?" Harry asks like they've just been discussing something wholly arbitrary, and perhaps by their standards it is.

"The literal or the _implied_ kind?" Mycroft shoots back, because as much as he likes the use of proper dating etiquette, he's also rather one to support efficiency in all actions.

"Whichever implication or combination thereof you favour."

That's someone giving him power he doesn't demand and Mycroft would kiss him over the table, if he wouldn't end up with his tie in the remnants of his dinner. "Tiramisu for starters perhaps?"

"Delightful."

They end up consuming heart-stoppingly delicious culinary works of art with their gazes slipping and sliding across each other's and the sexual tension is near unbearable. Harry insists on paying the check and Mycroft insists on getting a car, muttering, "If I have to watch those two for another minute I might very well wretch into a serviette." He throws a pointed look at the minister couple, one currently feeding the other, and Harry Hart snickers like they're in third form with a juicy bit of gossip thrown down the hall.

They climb into the back seat of Mycroft's black government issue car, a half dark leather sanctuary for greedy hands and even greedier lips. The strips of light from the outside flit across their faces as yellow rectangles, illuminating lust darkened eyes.

Eventually Mycroft pulls back and lets out a breathless chuckle, "Christ, I'm out of breath; let me catch a break."

And of course bloody Harry Hart has to make an _endearing_ face between a smile and utter confusion and Mycroft's cheeks redden even further.

"Wouldn't want you to suffocate. England would fall," says Harry and sneaks a hand on Mycroft's thigh. Mycroft huffs at that and leans his heated face against the cool of the window with his breathing fogging up the glass. He thinks in that moment, he's never done this before: just closed his eyes and let his defences melt away out of his own free will. To him it's a feeling akin to drifting towards insanity.

The car slows to a halt in front of his house and Mycroft is tempted to say all sorts of things, but settles on, "Would you like a drink?"

"Does that drink come with an implication too?"

"Perhaps."

Mycroft climbs out of the car and Harry Hart follows him. It's nice in the way they can alternate between being gentlemen and simply two people, each willing to stand on their own as the make their way up to Mycroft's house.

"How much do you spend on your postal code?" Harry asks as Mycroft opens the front door, "This area looks like they pave the streets with old money."

"Oh, so this is why you're dating me then," Mycroft says, mock offended, "and I was certain you liked my dry humour."

"I actually date you for your arse."

And for that comment Mycroft puts on a scandalized look, "You haven't even seen my arse yet."

"Well, perhaps it's time you entertained more than my imagination."

"Is that so?" And it's a wee bit ridiculous, Mycroft boxed against his own front door, whispering into the space between him and Harry Hart like the world's about to explode any minute now.

Harry smiles and steps back, "How about that drink first?"

Mycroft leads him into the lounge and digs out his only bottle of vodka, because the situation definitely calls for it. "Bottoms up, or whatever one is supposed to say," he clinks his glass against Harry's and they down their shots with appropriate looks of disgust.

"Truly attractive," Harry Hart mutters.

"Oh shut up and lets get it on," Mycroft huffs impatiently, setting his glass aside and straddling Harry on the couch, because he doesn't have time for useless chit chat, when there's better things to do.

He doesn't regret it one bit, when he sits up to see Harry fucking Hart peeling layer after layer after layer of clothing from his body like he's some delicate flower to let his eyes and hands roam over exposed skin. It makes him wonder why he's ever bothered to wait so long, because patience is not always a virtue.

"As much as I like your couch," Harry mumbles against his skin, "it is almost midnight and I'd argue neither one of us wants to move once were done with this."

"Whatever happened to being young and caught up in the moment?"

"I've aged about twenty years and gotten shot quite a few times in that time to be honest."

"You are terrible at sex talk."

"Which is why I propose actually having sex, instead of talking about it."

Mycroft's about to say something back, when Harry hoists him up and he's stuck flailing helplessly and cling to the other man. And he'd forgotten there were actual muscles hiding under that suit, forgot what Harry Hart's been doing for a living. "Don't you dare do that ever again," Mycroft says, when he's safely back on the ground, trying to compose the remnants of his dignity.

He barely manages a two steps before he's got hands all over himself again, and Mycroft doesn't terribly mind as he's tugging Harry Hart along by fistfuls of fabric like they're twenty-three years old and madly in love. Of course, that's far from the truth, but Mycroft doesn't think too much as he's stumbling up the stairs with a hand squeezing his and it's all he can think of in that instant.

VI.

Mycroft wakes up in the centre of the bed with the blankets tucked around him and it's the most disorienting thing he's experienced in a while. Through the open bedroom door he can hear the steady rumble of quiet sounds from downstairs with the scent of food drifting up the stairs and his stomach rumbles demandingly. He gets out of bed and composes himself from a naked man into the British Government, the human embodiment of political power.

Downstairs he finds Harry Hart leaning against the kitchen counter in his slightly wrinkled suit from the day before, and Mycroft is glad they don't have to do the awfully domestic routines of the morning after, wasting the day half naked trying to make sex into more than it is. Harry Hart listens to the news on the radio Mycroft keeps in the kitchen for the cleaning staff, munching on toast with a cup of tea waiting on the counter.

Mycroft pours himself a cup and notes it's steeped for longer than he prefers. He pours in an extra splash of milk and supposes Harry Hart prefers his tea efficiently caffeinated.

"I thought you weren't even going to attempt crawling out of bed today."

"Unfortunately, I do have a job to do," Mycroft says, yawning into his cup, "Don't tell me you're one of those perky morning people."

"Oh, no. I've merely got to get out to the airfield for the Lamorak trial; though I do enjoy watching half a dozen terrified and screaming lumps fall from the sky. I think it's Merlin's favourite part."

"Sadistic."

"He's got to take his joy from somewhere, especially with the amount of tech that just goes missing in the field."

In front of Mycroft's house a cab rolls to a halt and Harry hart peers out the window with a mouthful of toast and two long sips of tea mushing together as he's scrambling about to get his umbrella and shoes.

"Got to go," he grumbles and presses a crumb smeared kiss to Mycroft's cheek, "I'll text you later."

"Better use that phrase in its literal sense."

"Always." And Harry _sodding_ Hart winks at him as he rushes out the door. Mycroft's certain the world's on the verge of collapse. Instead two slices of toast pop out of the toaster and he whirls around in surprise. To think he shags Harry Hart once and already gets forced breakfasts like they're bloody love letters.

VII.

On a whim, as he's ordering flowers for his mother, Mycroft buys a bouquet of peonies for Harry Hart too and then realises how awful a choice that is. Four days on, the weekend before Mummy's party, when Sherlock and half the world's driving him up the wall, Mycroft takes a lunch break over at Savile Row. The little bell over the Kingsman's door chimes as he enters and is welcomed by the familiar rows of luxurious cuts and polished oxfords stacked on appropriate display shelves. Harry Hart looks up from behind the counter with that ever suspicious look in his eyes that softens upon seeing Mycroft.

"I didn't know you were coming over."

"I wasn't supposed to," Mycroft says lamely and tries to reclaim his sense of authority, "I've got forty-five minutes and I may be starving."

Harry Hart nods, though Mycroft can't tell whether or not that's good; Patrick appears and the two of them head up the stairs, Mycroft clinging to his umbrella like a lifebuoy. They head to the drawing room, where Harry makes tea and Mycroft sits on the couch where they first kissed a two months ago. He turns to look at Harry Hart digging around in the cupboards for food and Mycroft thinks only somewhat absurd things must occur in this room.

"There's two dry fairy cakes and a box of pop tarts," Harry offers and Mycroft wrinkles his nose.

"Pop tarts would be less of an offense I suppose."

The sugary planes rotate in the microwave, the kettle ticks off and Harry Hart pours tea. They eat pop tarts for lunch together, which Mycroft thinks might just be the most bizarre thing he's ever done in a relationship.

"Harry, if the flowers offended you, I do apologize."

And Harry Hart looks at him a little crooked, like he doesn't quite understand what's being said. "They were lovely, albeit being rather dead by now. Why would I be offended by them?"

"I simply didn't know whether it was appropriate."

"If there's someone you should buy flowers for it's the person you're shagging," Harry Hart says with revelation slowly dawning on his face, "Is this because I haven't texted you since you sent me those flowers?"

Mycroft doesn't say yes, but he thinks it and it must show on his face, because Harry says, "Mycroft, I still like you, even if we don't talk for a week and you send me flowers or god knows whatever else you feel like buying. I know you've been busy, that's all. And I thought those flowers were a sign of affection, something along the lines of 'I'm sorry I don't have time for you right now, but I still think about you.'"

He falls silent, sipping his tea dn Mycroft wrings his hands. "They were," he confesses, because they're both a bit embarrassingly terrible at this whole dating thing.

"Right. Well, how about we go out for dinner Saturday?"

"I'm afraid I have my mother's birthday party that I must attend. Perhaps early next week?"

"Sounds good to me. Am I allowed not to text you until then?"

"You're allowed to do anything you want, Harry," Mycroft says with a genuine smile, relieved this isn't a battlefield of ridiculous dating conventions, but an honest to god relationship, where absence really does make the heart grow fonder. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting with the Czech prime minister in a quarter of an hour."

VIII.

Mummy turns seventy-five on a not-so-cold afternoon in late autumn, surrounded by a flurry of family friends and relatives all packed into the backyard of Mycroft's childhood home in Sussex. To everyone's surprise the sun's actually out for once and Mycroft thinks there are worse ways to spend a Saturday. Naturally Sherlock disagrees, putting on a smile for Mummy and then plopping down out of sight in a folding chair. It's no different to their lives thirty years ago, except that they get to go at the end of the day.

"Sherlock."

Mycroft joins his brother at the table everyone else subtly avoids, pushing a plate with appetizers Sherlock might even nibble on towards him. "Transport," he mutters and Sherlock's glare isn't quite as sharp as usual. Mycroft even entertains the idea that he's not in as sour a mood as he is in London, when it's just the two of them for better and for worse.

"Mummy _liked_ the flowers." He doesn't look at Mycroft, when he says it, eyes trained on the strip of table between the plate and his lap.

"I took the liberty of putting your name on the card. You know how much Mummy likes it when we do things in brotherly fashion." And it's been what they've had for a very long time, the shared exasperation at the dullness of the world around them.

Sherlock eats two little prawn and avocado sandwiches impaled on toothpicks and wipes his mouth with the corner of a napkin in an irritatingly slow fashion, before he asks, "I'm surprised you could even make it out here this weekend, what with the current leadership in the state it's in."

"There's nothing that's 'in a state' regarding my work affairs, Sherlock. Perhaps, if you'd actually bother to acquaint yourself with politics or the fact that we have a _queen_ , you could have deduced that yourself."

"And why on earth would I want to get anymore involved in your boring life than I absolutely must?"

"Common curtesy of being genetically related, I am told."

"Since when have you taken to kindness?"

"Since I crossed the threshold to this house. As did you." Mycroft quirks enough of a smile to drive the point home, grabs his umbrella and wanders off into the crowd. For whatever reason, Sherlock follows him like a shadow and they slip into and through one little circle of relatives after another.

"Mycroft," his second cousin, ten years his senior and vile spirited, exclaims, when him and Sherlock join the little ring of people closest to their own age range, "You look splendid. Have you lost a few pounds?"

"Quite the opposite," Sherlock mutters and decides to punch below the belt, "as you would surely know, since you've gained weight worth two sizes and are anxiously eyeing up everyone present."

And Mycroft isn't as bothered by Sherlock's rudeness as he could be, because his brother did have the decency to defend him, though the silent group around them disagrees. Sherlock, unfazed as ever by the idea of using his manners, plows on, "You'd even go so far as to spill wine on Monica Mayweather's dress, because you're jealous about the fact that she not only objectively speaking looks better, but her husband recently got promoted over yours."

"Sherlock," Mycroft cuts in in the name of good taste and some sort of boundaries.

As if only just realising his mistake, Sherlock twirls around and stalks off without a word. Mycroft doesn't even bother with an apologetic smile, nor does he attempt to get hold of his brother.

Instead he walks to the end of the yard, where a little white cross with a bone as the horizontal, dirtied by time and endless rain, marks the burial spot of Redbeard. Mycroft looks at the letters carved by his brother, because the dog had always been more Sherlock's even though they were supposed to share. In the same way Sherlock had taken Mycroft's right as a first born child to call Mummy his mother instead of theirs. In diplomacies name, Mycroft has let Sherlock be possessive and gracefully swapped roles. Not being liked as much by a dog somehow seemed even worse and Mycroft still remembers the night they buried him in Sherlock's favourite felt and Mycroft hadn't found it in him to cry.

"Mike," his mother interrupts his reverie and Mycroft tries not to flinch at the usage of a nickname, "Why are you hiding out here?"

"I'm not hiding. It isn't as though I'm thirteen anymore."

"Oh, I know. In that case I would be much younger too."

"You're still beautiful, Mummy. And there's the whole matter of growing wiser with old age."

She smiles wistfully at him, "There's nothing to being wiser, if you aren't happier."

"I'm quite alright, if that's what you're implying."

"I know you're capable of taking care of yourself, Mycroft, and I do appreciate you looking after William as well. He forgets to do it himself sometimes." She kisses him on the cheek because she can, and Mycroft will never be bothered by it. "I'll try to get William to eat some of the food at the buffet now, if you don't mind."

"No, not at all. He does need it."

Mummy's already on her way back to the life of the party, when she turns back to him and says, "You know you're free to leave at any point, Mycroft. You've done your duty."

He nods and waits for her to disappear before he goes to look for his coat and texts for a car. As much as he does love his parents, there is a limit to his ability of interacting with a crowd of goldfish that makes up the majority of the guests. Mycroft seeks out his father to say his goodbyes and heads back to London in the blessed quietude of a Government issued car with a driver used to _not_ speaking. He dozes off with his face pressed into the window, exhausted by smiling politely and dealing with Sherlock for hours on end. He pities his brother only a little for leaving him at the scene of the crime.

IX.

Mycroft sits in his office, staring into the lit fireplace, where he likes to burn particularly useless files on bad days with a cup of good old Lady Grey for company. He thinks about the weekend, Sherlock moping around like usual and Mummy spying a sad mood, where there's one to be seen. He and Sherlock may be sub par at being in touch with their own emotions, the mere idea of sentimentality, but Mummy sees past it. And she implies the things they don't want to think about, makes Mycroft question how _happy_ his life is.

Him and Sherlock, they're used to brushing the comments and questions off; stuff them out of sight and out of mind. But the thing about Mummy is that she does have a knack of haunting him at times. Mycroft considers the general feeling of contentment he's lived with for most of his adult life. He certainly has his lows, eating binges coinciding with Sherlock's peaks in self destructiveness, but he also has Harry Hart, and that makes life a little better. It's not quite love, but Mycroft's not asking for that either and he gets the sense Harry's the same.


End file.
